Of Tumbling, Drabbley Nature
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: John is called back to Afghanistan. Moran has a sordid kink. Moriarty has a dying wish. Jim is bored, Sherlock is incomplete. Camping. Molly knows Sherlock isn't okay. And the snuggling is better than the sex. .:. Johnlock, MorMor, Sheriarty, Sherlolly.
1. Johnlock: Afghanistan

**A/N: I opened up prompts on my Tumblr, and these are what I got. XD**

**First one, by Anonymous, "John is called back to Afganistan, Sherlock has to stop it somehow, but the hard part is telling John why he wants him to stay so bad. Have fun! :)"**

**And fun I had, because this became quite humorous. **

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><p>"Did you bother to get the mail at all?" John sighs as he enters the flat after grocery shopping.<p>

Sherlock hums something noncommittal and shrugs where he lies on the sofa, two nicotine patches on his forearm and his prayer hands raised to his chin, eyes shut calmly.

John rolls his eyes and goes to fetch the mail. When he comes back, he's sifting through it one by one, ignoring the ads and coupons and bills. Then one with a stamp of the British army catches his eye, and he freezes in place. "Sherlock."

"Not now, John. I'm working out the next step in our current case."

John opens the letter and reads it. He swallows hard and looks up. "I have to go back to Afghanistan, Sherlock. They need me."

Sherlock's eyes fly open and he immediately bolts upward. "Come again?"

"Army. Afghanistan. I'm being called back," John summarizes tightly. "They want me to leave next week."

"What? No. Unacceptable. You aren't going." And he flops back onto the sofa, tearing off his patches with less finesse than usual.

"Sherlock, I'm _enlisted._ My limp has been eradicated thanks to you, and I have nothing wrong with my physique. I can't decline," John reminds him firmly, but he still sounds nervous, very hesitant to go.

The detective scowls. "No. I'm going to stop this. Mark my words, you won't be going."

"Sherlock, unless you do something like shoot me in the leg, I have to go," John retorts. His face falls in horror. "Dear God, I've given you ideas. Don't do what I just said, please."

"We could fake your death —" Sherlock begins.

"And look how that turned out for you and Irene Adler! The answer is no!" and John turns sharply on his heel and heads for his bedroom. He needs to relocate his dog tags.

Sherlock panics. John can't leave him. This can't be permitted to happen, not in the least! John… John is very essential, very vital, very, very important to Sherlock. John is… John is his conductor of light, and he'll be damned if he loses him in conflict abroad, or even misses him for months on end. No, it simply cannot happen.

So Sherlock calls Mycroft, asks him to pull some strings.

His damn older brother is smug about it. "And why, exactly, do you want to keep John in England so badly?" he wants to know.

"You know why," Sherlock growls, not interested in explaining himself.

"Hmm, yes, I've had my suspicions for a while now, but I would love to hear you admit it," Mycroft damn near purrs, and the next time Sherlock sees him, he's going to round-house kick his brother in the jaw, and he will do it enough to dislocate, he can promise that much.

"If I were to confess to anyone, it would be to him, and since I don't plan on saying it even to him, then I'm certainly not going to say it to you. Good day, Mycroft." And with that, he angrily presses the 'end' button on his cell phone.

He calls back a minute later, and begrudgingly, Sherlock picks up the phone.

"I never said I'd do it, Little Brother," Mycroft says teasingly. "You will have to give me your word that you will take the next twenty cases I have for you without any qualms, protests, or refusals."

"If it will keep John in London with me, then I will take any stupid case you give me," Sherlock demands, "Just keep him from going back there, Mycroft!"

"…What's this about making me stay in London?" John frowns, entering the room.

"You have a deal. Now I think you should confess what you were never going to confess if you want him to understand properly. Ta-ta," Mycroft smirks in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock drops the phone and blinks at John. "It's… nothing important, really. I just had my brother use his influence with the government to sway them to revoke your callback. Now you won't have to serve again, and alls well that ends well. Now then, John, about our current case —"

"Hold on one bleedin' minute!" John barks, face controrted in confusion. "Why the hell does it matter if I stay or go? People's lives could be saved if I left, and you hardly need my input or anything! Why does it bother you so much if I serve again? I don't want to go much, I'll admit, but I also don't mind going, either. Could be good for me, even, in the long run; you and your brother are the ones who pointed out how accustomed and even addicted to danger I am. So what's wrong with going back to Afghanistan?"

"…You belong here, that's all," Sherlock says thickly, his voice tight. He doesn't look John in the eye. "Tea? I'll put the kettle on."

"No! No sodding _tea_ until you tell me why you're acting like this! It's almost like you're panicking, which is weird, because the only time I've seen you this distressed was with the Hound and the drugs." John states, and Sherlock resists wincing.

"…I," Sherlock starts, and hesitates. He turns toward John. With a flourish of his hands, he says, "I just need you to stay here. It's boring without you. And besides, you know how I am with shopping and social conduct; I would make a mess of things within a week and everyone would disown me. Plus, I might get myself killed on a case. That happens a lot, doesn't it: you needing to save me. So there, you're needed here more. That's all there is to it."

"…You're saying… that _you_ need me."

Sherlock nods hurriedly and moves toward the kitchen. "Yes, John, that's precisely what I'm saying. Now then, tea?"

"But why would you _need_ me? You never did before I moved in with you. You were perfectly fine before," John points out, and dammit, Sherlock forgets how John has his moments of true clarity.

The detective tenses and fiddles with the silk of his robe. "Ah, no reason why. And I wasn't fine before you came; that much is abundantly clear, isn't it? I'd think so."

"No, it's not, because you're lying. Sherlock, you're hiding something from me. What is it?" John questions, his gaze piercing enough to distract Sherlock.

It pulls Sherlock 'round again, and he makes a face before dropping the facade and sighing. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a sigh of tired surrender. "Yes, all right, fine. I am hiding something. But it's nothing you need know, that's all. It's just a… small revelation I've had in mind for a while now, nothing serious, and it's come to light even more-so due to this recent event. No biggie," he says at the end like a teenager. "Tea? Yes?"

"No, Sherlock," John frowns. He's getting irritated. "What revelation?"

"Um," Sherlock mutters, and yes, for once, the genius is without words. "Nothing."

"Sherlock…"

"Really, John, it's silly."

"Sherlock."

"It's just a minor detail about me, John, a little discovery of sorts. Nothing you probably don't already know." Although he's bluffing. He knows John is unaware of it, and he likes to keep it that way.

"Sherlock! Tell me already!" John shouts, and Sherlock visibly flinches.

With a suddenly burst of hot anger (probably due to being exposed for a moment during that flinch, as well as getting fed up with John prodding so deeply into the topic), Sherlock screams, "_I love you,_ that's why!"

John blinks. "…What?"

"I love you," Sherlock sighs in defeat. "Seems I do have a heart, John, and emotions. And they're all for you, _because_ of you. And they are so common and annoying, too." He looks up, finally, eyes searching John's face. "Now will you let me keep you here? Regardless of how you might be possibly disgusted with me — I am well aware of your sexuality, and I expect nothing from you — the fact remains that I care about you and don't wish to see you wounded, and I love you, which means I don't wish for you to leave my side for so long. Is that wrong?"

"…No, Sherlock," John whispers, taking a step closer. He shakes his head, smiles gently. "It's not wrong."

"So you'll stay? You'll let Mycroft revoke your call to action?" Sherlock asks mutedly.

John nods and steps into his flatmate's personal space, taking him into his arms. "Yes and yes. Of course. If you had just told me sooner, I would have asked you to do all that, actually."

"Really? Why?" Sherlock wants to know.

John chuckles and leans up to peck a kiss on Sherlock's chin. "Because I love you, too, you daft git. I can't believe you didn't realize sooner that I do. World's most observant man can't even see that his own flatmate's in love with him; that's one for the record books, I reckon."

"Shut up and kiss me properly," Sherlock retorts with a smirk.

And that's the end of that argument, as it were.


	2. MorMor: Wanking Hour

**A/N: Second prompt, also anynonymously given:** **"Mormor prompt. Seb always feels horny after a hit. One time Jim justs so happens to watch his sniper wanking off after performing a job."**

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><p>Moran is well aware that his mind is corrupted. In fact, he has known for a long while, since he served in the conflict in Afghanistan that he is a bit… unusual, and perhaps a lot unhealthy, sanity-wise. But he really can't find it in himself to stop.<p>

You see, Moran has this habit of getting off on murder. On killing. On shooting down people, taking head-shots with his sniper rifle, watching their skulls explode and blood spatter on flat surfaces and paint them crimson. He gets off on the bodies falling in a heap on the ground, splaying in spread-eagle, crumpled, and even provocative poses. It's beautiful. It's sick and wrong.

It makes him horny.

So after a hit, after one of his pleasurable jobs, Moran gives over to his more carnal urges and adds to the pleasure. He usually waits until he's in a more secluded place, but sometimes his sniping locations are so well hidden that he doesn't have to travel home, concealing his erection; he can have his wank right there, int he dirtiest of secret places, and no one has to know.

It's after one particular job that Moran is aware he isn't quite alone. He knows his boss is nearby, could walk in at any second, but that somehow adds to the thrill of it all, and he doesn't hesitate longer than a second to unzip his trousers and yank them down his thighs after putting his gun and scope away.

He takes his manhood in his hand and strokes slow and sensually, gripping tight and almost painfully, clenching and unclenching his fist around himself. He tilts his head back, panting, and closes his eyes. He then twists around the head, rubs his thumb over his slit, and glides back down the shaft to the base, repeating the process over and over, pausing only to palm his balls or lick his hand for added moisture until the pre-come oozes out.

And after that is slicked around his prick, it doesn't take long for him to come.

He groans long and low and he picks up the pace, jerking upward harshly and almsot painfully, purposely scraping his short fingernails up his length like teeth might, and encloses the wet tip with his fist like lips and a mouth. He wishes someone were here to do that for him; it's been so long since he's fucked anyone, and even longer since he's fucking anyone in the mouth, and he longs for that contact again.

But Moran presses on, thinking of blood and blood and bullets and the sleek design of guns and blood dripped onto the barrel of his rifle and someone's hands running along his body and using is gun to pin him to a wall while they rutted against his exposed member and the fantasy is enough to get him off.

Moran comes with a jagged gasp and a rumbling moan, semen coating his fingers and dribbling down his length as he squeezes the last of it out of himself, riding out the aftershocks and throbs of pleasure from his orgasm with little rocks of his hips.

Then he wipes off his hands with a rag from his bag, closes up his jeans, and stands with a sniff and and a causal clearing of his throat.

And that's when Moran turns toward the exit and finds his boss leaning there, smirking, pupils clearly dilated, and a slight flush across his cheeks to match the bulge in his dress slacks.

"Why, hello, Seb; should've known you liked working long hours too much. Is that what you do every time I give you someone to assassinate~?" a his voice is, as always, a gentle allure of danger and sex and song, and Moran's prick twitches subtly in his pants.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Boss?" he growls, and Moriarty smiles and moves further into the empty, abandoned room and reaches out to adjust Moran's shirt collar.

"Oh, Sebastian, you should know that Daddy likes to check up on all his little workers. And you're my favorite," Moriarty grins devilishly, leaning in to graze his nose across the hollow of Moran's throat. He presses an open-mouthed kiss, hot and edged with teeth and laced with tongue, right on Moran's adam's apple, and he tenses where he stands, hands tightly gripping his bag containing his gun.

"Where you… Did you watch me the entire fucking time, you asshole?" Moran curses loudly, but it lacks the gusto it should.

"Mm, yes," Moriarty smirks. "And I would like very much if you let me play with you for a while when we get back to my criminal headquarters. If you don't mind, of course~ But even if you did, I would handcuff you and make you anyway. I'm not opposed to force."

"God damn you, Jim," Moran mutters, but he's already aroused and still very horny, and screwing your boss isn't that uncommon, anyway.

"That's what I like to hear," Moriarty replies happily. "Off we go, then."


	3. Sheriarty: Dying Wish

**A/N: Anonymous asked, "I would love you forever if you'd write me some super depressing and yet awesome Sheriarty?" And so I delivered. I think.**

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><p>"You're obsessed," Sherlock states rather coldly, his voice like venom and his words like blades, the mixture like a slice of poison entering directly into Moriarty's veins.<p>

"And you're not?" he counters fluidly to mask his hurt at the remark. "Yes, all right, I'll admit I'm a bit fascinated with you —"

"You wrote my name repeatedly over the inside of my brother's interrogation chamber like a deranged teenager with a crush, doodling in their notebook. You put little Xs as kisses when you sign your texts to me. You're obsessed" he repeats, "And I am not. You are a challenge, a rather clever and interesting one, yes, but I clearly do not return your feelings,_ Jim._"

"That hurts, Sherlock, it really does," he says with a false pout, but in reality, it does sting quite a bit. He shrugs off Sherlock's death grip on his jacket's lapels and sighs as he steps aside, out of Sherlock's personal space but still under his glare. "Can't you accept my backwards love? We could be perfect together, you and I. The criminal and his detective. We could rule nations, evade and control the law, and all before breakfast after a romping night of hate-sex. Sounds glorious, don't you think~?" and he raises a brow and his voice simultaneously.

Sherlock snorts a bitter laugh. "You must know how ridiculously insane and impossible that sounds."

"Oh, let a man dream, Sherlock," Moriarty pouts again, but his heart clenches in his chest and he adverts his gaze. "So, this then. This little dilemma of ours. We keep 'dying' on each other and springing back up again like zombies, don't we? It's quite bothersome. Maybe we should end it, once and for all."

"…Are you saying… we die for real?" Sherlock remarks cautiously, his eyes narrowed and his guard up, and he raises John Watson's gun, the doctor nowhere to be found.

"Well, yes, of course. _Duh_," he adds for emphasis. He rolls his eyes. "I'm tired of this game, Sherlock, I really am. It's not fun anymore. You hate me, you killed my best snipers and henchmen, you've taken away my favorite toy, Sebastian, and all for the sake of John and justice and blah blah _blah_," Moriarty relays with a groan. "Jesus, can't we just end it this time? For real? I just want to die in your arms and be happy on my _highway to Hell~_." and he sings it and mimics the song with some air guitar and looks like he's on the brink of tears, but it could all be an act. Sherlock has learned not to trust a single thing Moriarty says, even the truths behind the lies, because those could be bluffs for further deceit buried in backward honesty.

"You… _want_ me to kill you?" Sherlock restates bluntly, "So I know it's real and so you can, what, _die in peace,_ ended by your greatest foe to feel accomplished in your life?" and he frowns.

Moriarty rolls his eyes, but in doing so, he lets slip a tear. "Yes. God, are you really so plainfully ordinary after all that you have to state the obvious? I'm tired, Sherlock, and I'm forfeiting." He sighs and takes Sherlock's hand in both of his, the one holding the gun, and presses it tenderly to his chest. "Please. Consider it my dying wish. I'd rather die by your hand than a lethal injection or electric chair or whatever they fancy using for executions these days. There's more justice in it if you do it. And that suits you, doesn't it? —No, don't answer that; rhetorical. Of course it does. You love that you're the only person who can bring me to my knees, who can kill me." And he smirks.

"…No. No. This is a trick, it has to be, just like atop St. Bart's. You don't— you wouldn't—" Sherlock babbles, tripping over his own thoughts with the rate they're whizzing by in his brain. He can almost smell the electricity, can almost feel the oncoming short-circuiting that will make him pass out like an epileptic.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," James Moriarty whispers, and he kisses Sherlock's white, tendon-taunt knuckles before forcing him to pull the trigger.

He falls into a heap of blood and tears, eyes closed and restful onto the ground.

Sherlock stumbles backward, stunned, and closes his own eyes as he slides down the nearest wall behind him. He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and wonders what the fuck just happened, and if this is all a nightmare or not.

It must be, he thinks, because he can swear he hears Jim crawling up between his legs and pressing a bloody kiss to his knee before collapsing again, truly dead this time.


	4. MorMor: Boredom, Sheriarty: Incomplete

**A/N: inevitable-destruction prompted, "Hi! so you're accepting prompts? What about (1)MorMor or (2) Sheriarty with the word is incomplete. (the two of them are also a valid option; one that could make this prompter very happy)" So how could I refuse? ;D**

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><p><em>01.<em>

"Seb, I'm _boooored~_; come entertain me!" Jim whines, calling out into his immaculate flat and hearing the crystal in the chandeliers above him ping with the vibrations of his high voice. "Now!" he adds sharply, for effect. The crystal rings in almost a cry, and it makes him smile smugly.

His favorite sniper appears in the doorway looking more than irritated and less than furious, so Jim takes what he can get.

"Will you do something for Daddy?" Jim asks sweetly, sitting upright in his chair and dropping his feet from his glass coffee table. "Will you come over here and let me kiss you? Kissing is always entertaining; at least for a while. And I like how you nip my lips and make me bruised and bloody when you kiss me too hard. I do so enjoy the taste of my own blood sometimes, and I always have you to help heal my mouth again when we're done." And he grins foxily, sly and seductive, and Moran rolls his eyes.

"Fine. Whatever."

"Yay!" Jim claps sarcastically. More demanding and serious, he points to his lap. "Now come straddle me, and keep your hands behind your back. I want to feel you all over while you only touch me with your mouth. And, of course, your arse, but that's just unspoken contact."

Moran sighs and does as he's told, and at least Jim's boredom is cured for the next hour until both their jaws ache and lips are throbbing and numb and their legs are cramping. But it's a good kind of hurt, and Jim wouldn't have it any other way.

_02._

He stands in the dusty room, takes his own pulse.

_Thuh-thump. Thuh-thump. Thh- … thumpthump._

Always. Always a missing beat, like the gaping hole of a lost tooth in a child's mouth. A gap, a break in pattern, an irregularity.

Always. Always when they are apart.

John will be there. John will try to fill that space, will try to calm Sherlock's heart, will attempt to hold and piece him together.

But a piece is missing, always missing. Something is left out, like a clock without a cog, rendered imperfect and incomplete.

Incomplete, yes. Without him, Sherlock is incomplete. Sherlock needs him. And he needs Sherlock, that much is clear; he is obsessed with Sherlock, infatuated in a sordid sense, and when one isn't creating crime, the other can't solve it, bring it to justice. And without one breaking barriers in the crime, inching closer and closer to the solutions and justice, the other isn't motivated to carry on creating more, doesn't feel the incentive to continue soiling the law.

"Moriarty," Sherlock whispers when he is alone, and that name, that single word is enough to fill part of the gap in his incomplete soul.

_Thuh-thump. Thuh-thump. Thuh- … thump._


	5. Johnlock: Camp Out

**A/N: Another Anon requested, "You delectable writer, you... May I perhaps request... something along the lines of Camping Johnlock smut? teeheehehehehehehe..." and I thought, "WHY THE FUCK NOT! WHOO!" so here it is. XD**

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><p>Sherlock tosses a duffel bag onto John's lap. The doctor is jarred from his reading of the paper, and he stares down at the offending object for a long enough moment to sigh heavily before rolling his eyes and looking up at his flatmate.<p>

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes. Stakeout in the wooded area of a park, looking for someone who's been on a string of rapes, preying on night-joggers of both sexes. They may or may not strike tonight or the rest of this week, but the chances are good if we camp there until we catch the perp. So pack a bag for at least five days' worth of clothing and supplies. Meet you outside when you're done; we start tonight," Sherlock instructs firmly.

John sighs again and shakes his head as he stands up, tosses his paper aside, and grabs the bag. "Yeah, yeah; I hear ya…"

XXX

It's on the third night of Nothing At All Suspicious Occurring, as John has come to call it out of boredom, that Sherlock huffs and plops down into their camping tent (hidden well in the bushes and trees of the park; no one has seen them during any of these nights, and they have a permit from Lestrade saying they can camp here if anyone questions them) and groans out loud.

"I thought for sure he would make an attempt! But it's too late for any of even the latest joggers, now, and a good three or four hours before the earliest ones. Bugger," Sherlock says, and he doesn't often swear, but when he does, it's usually because he is exhausted and truly annoyed.

"Well, we may as well get some sleep, then, for a couple hours at least," John remarks with a yawn.

"Yes, I suppose we could do that," and Sherlock hums before adding, "But I'm not very tired."

"Liar. You sound completely wiped. Why don't you close your eyes for a bit? I'll keep watch."

"You would fall asleep; I know you, John," Sherlock sighs. "No, we need to stay awake until dawn again, as we have been doing. We can sleep in the day at home, like before, and reset the tent again tomorrow."

"And how do you propose we stay awake? I'm bloody exhausted, Sherlock. No energy left."

Sherlock snorts a chuckle. "And yet you offered to keep watch for me."

"I would've!" John contradicts childishly. "The possibility of danger would have kept me up. But now…"

"I've an idea," Sherlock murmurs, stealing glances up at where John sits. He props himself onto his elbows and gives John a once-over with his eyes. "Have sex with me."

It takes John a long moment to comprehend if what he just heard was honestly what he had just thought he heard. And Sherlock's gaze doesn't waver and John has blinked, stared, and blinked again about six times in a row, John opens his mouth. "…And what, exactly, is that going to do?"

"Sex can drain energy, it's true, but only if you do it a certain way. Otherwise it can prolong energy because of all the chemicals being released in the brain during it. It can temporarily heighten one's senses as well, making a person keenly aware of something they're feeling or seeing or hearing. It's common sense, John, really."

"…Common sense. Right." And John shakes his head. "Why on Earth would I even want to have sex with you, even for the sake of giving myself some energy to stay awake or refreshen my senses, if that even works like you say it does?"

"It does work, for one," Sherlock retorts, "Because there is always the buzz and thrill of new touches and sensations and chemistry. For two, does it honestly matter at this point if you and I have sex? People already assume so. We're close friends, so it shouldn't ruin anything between us, at least not on my end, since I don't care about sex the way you do. So what should it matter? It will be just one more experiment to add to the list."

"Yes, but—" John starts to protest, and oddly enough, the only reason he can come up with for saying no is, "I'm not gay."

"And I don't identify with any sort of sexuality or label, and that doesn't hinder me," Sherlock remarks, "So what is the point in arguing further? You won't even have to do much, if you don't like. I'm sure I can provide enough stimulation to produce the desired effect."

John blinks again. Okay, now this is just strange. But nothing with Sherlock is ever normal, so why did he think something like this would be?

Sighing, John complies. "Yeah, all right. Whatever. I trust you, and I guess that's enough to get through this." Because there is so attraction, no arousal from the thought of another man touching him, but the touches themselves will probably trigger things — human contact and warmth and all that — and he does trust Sherlock and they are friends, like he said, so it isn't too uncomfortable. Even if the timing is off and the reasoning is even more off.

John shrugs out of his shirt and lies down atop his sleeping bag (his army-issue roll-out cot, complete with army colors and tiny patch of the British flag on it), peering questioningly but otherwise indifferently up at his flatmate.

Sherlock, out of courtesy, removes his own shirt and moves to kneel on all fours above John, hovering over him almost casually, and God, this is so weird, but John definitely feels more awake with each passing second, so there is some truth to all this, because he's paying attention to what Sherlock will do next, and there is some sort of reaction in his heart rate when Sherlock runs a hand down along John's chest.

John inhales sharply and his eyes flicker between Sherlock's hand and Sherlock's face, watching the way Sherlock's hair hangs over his forehead and falls around his face, and watches the way Sherlock's face belies nothing but impassiveness. Except his mouth twitches when he touches John's bullet wound scar, and both their pupils are dilated in the sheer darkness of the night, but John could have sworn Sherlock's pupils shifted larger for a fleeting second. He could have imagined that, though.

Sherlock traces John's skin, every shape of bone and muscle, feeling the texture of his chest hair and nipples, and particularly pays attention to John's scar, and idly, John wonders if Sherlock has a fetish for irregular things like old flesh wounds. But the thought passes quickly as he realizes what these touches, as seemingly introspective as they are, are doing to him.

John's breathing picks up as he feels the blood rushing to pool and heat in his groin, and he closes his eyes in what he hope looks collected and natural and not too aroused at all. Because he's not— not enjoying this the way most people would think he is, honest. He's just… letting those chemicals keep him awake and energized like Sherlock said they would. He's letting those fumes fuel him. It's nothing, really. Nothing.

But then Sherlock shifts and John opens his eyes a crack. But Sherlock is too close to see correctly, and his mouth is on John's neck, and John's eyes are shocked into full openness as he blinks up at the dim outlines of the tent roof and he can smell bark and moss and dew and leaves and dirt, but he can only feel heat and slickness and skin and he's suddenly arcing up into Sherlock's body, a moan slipping out.

Sherlock doesn't comment on the soft noise, and instead continues touching and mouthing various parts of John's exposed flesh, once again noting how Sherlock pays special attention to John's scar, and okay, if there isn't a kink or fetish there, John doesn't know what to think.

John had kept his arms and hands at his side this entire time, but now he reaches up and tugs and rakes one through Sherlock's hair, and uses the other to feel the sinew under the warm skin of Sherlock's back. It's taunt and shifting and there is cooling as the night air continually touches the skin. And John can feel Sherlock's ribs and spine and shoulder blades, all as angular as his damn cheekbones and nose and pointed chin, and it's a mystery to John why this interests him.

It's when Sherlock shifts again, pressing his weight down on John and lying algined to John in a way that their legs overlap in a pattern, John-Sherlock-John-Sherlock, hips off-center, chests crushing and also off-center, their arms coming around one another's shoulders, that John feels evidence of Sherlock's own erection, and that's a mystery to John, too, because either Sherlock was lying about his disinterest in sexual activities, or Sherlock's body cannot control itself as well as Sherlock thought, because stimulation is stimulation.

But even so, despite which probability it is, John is intrigued and maybe just a little interested in kissing Sherlock just to get a feeling for the mood and the act, and because he wonders if it isn't what he's supposed to do anyway.

So John draws Sherlock's face up with his hands and their partially opened mouths meet, and John finds that Sherlock's taste is addicting in the most uncommon of ways, so he indulges for a bit in that, feeling Sherlock's fingers tangled and scratching through John's grey-blond hair.

And then John's hips begin to grind without his consent, but he realizes it's because they are reacting to the way Sherlock's own pelvis is gyrating, so John goes with it, feeling the occasional brush of their lengths through their trousers, and it's a bit simple and dirty like teenagers in a car, rutting with established rhythm and aiming to come in their pants, but John takes when he can get, and Sherlock did say that the sex has to be done in the least energy-consuming way.

Sherlock's hand worms its way down to John's clothed erection and adds to the friction of their bumping by palming and gripping along the shaft. John stifles a gasp and a moan into Sherlock's mouth, which is still somewhat connected to John's own, if suckling on his bottom lip and breathing into his mouth while only their bottom lips touch count as connection.

Oddly enough (or perhaps not as oddly, considering the how often John has sex as opposed to how often Sherlock does), Sherlock reaches his orgasm first, stilling and shuddering and holding John tightly to himself as he hides his face between John's chin and collarbone.

And John loses it then, because Sherlock groans John's name shy and low under his breath as he pants during the aftershocks, and John feels something trigger inside of him because of that.

So he takes Sherlock by the waist and rolls them over, half onto Sherlock's sleeping back and one of each of their feet falling out of the bottom, partially-open front flap of their tent, John's toes touching the forest floor. He thrusts his hips downward, grinding hard and fast against Sherlock's softening erection and sharp hip bones.

Sherlock groans and clenches his thighs around John's hips and lets him ride it out until he comes, and when John does, it's all a flash of heat and electricity and he's never felt more alive, his heart a rapid thunder-drum in his ears.

Breathing heavily, John rolls back to his original spot and blinks up at nothing, listening distantly to Sherlock's own panting. And yes, okay, he did like that and wouldn't mind doing it again in the future, going further, perhaps; and, of course, only if Sherlock let him.

"I'll… start a campfire," Sherlock breathes, sitting up, trembling slightly, his voice calm but his face saying the opposite. They won't even be noticed if they have a campfire, and again, the permit says they can have a small one, so John nods and swallows and mutters that that would be great; preferable, even.

What happens in the tent stays in the tent, John thinks for a moment, and then he recalls Harry watching that American film _Brokeback Mountain_, and he just smacks himself in the forehead and doesn't respond when Sherlock asks if John intends to stay up, now, because _obviously_ there will be no getting to sleep with how wired his brain is at the moment.


	6. Sherlolly and Johnlock: Not Okay

**A/N: freya-e-crema asked, "Hey, would you be able to write a different version of when Sherlock tells Molly that he is not ok. you can choose how it goes down :D" and you all know how much I adore Molly, so I was happy to oblige. **

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><p>"Molly," Sherlock remarks subduedly, and it takes her by surprise enough to turn 'round and stare at him, blinking only once or twice.<p>

"What is it?" she asks, and the concern is so evident in her tone that she wonders if she is doomed to forever be perfectly transparent, or if there is a cure somewhere to keep her heart from being stitched so messily and bloodily onto her sleeve.

"You were right," Sherlock tells her softly, and is that sincerity real? It must be. "I'm not okay."

Molly didn't think he would ever actually voice it aloud. But here it is, the moment she never thought would come: Sherlock Holmes is opening himself up to her, like an oyster revealing a pearl, and it steals the breath from her lungs.

"W-what is it, Sherlock? What's wrong? A-anything you need, I'm here. Just tell me," she stutters, gripping her bag with a hold that even iron and steel would be envious of. "Tell me why you're not okay."

Sherlock sighs and turns away. "Molly, I know you have loved people. Even me, I'm sure, and this will hurt you to hear, but I can love, Molly, even when I thought I couldn't and never would. But I love. I care for people. I'm not as sociopathic as I originally thought, was originally labeled."

"Sherlock," she whispers, and she takes a step nearer to him. She looks down, unsure, and back up again. He mainly sees his profile, all sleek angles and pale skin contrasting with dark hair, but when he offers her a glance, her heart nearly shatters. "I know… I know it's never been for me, any of it. And— and I can ponder a guess some of the people you care about, and the one person you might… m-might love, really love. So just…" She breathes cautiously, as if the air might slice through her lungs too quickly and chop them cleanly in two, leaving her without breath at all. "Just tell me what you need me to do."

"Molly," he says again, and her name on his tongue is like an apology, "I have to hurt him. I have to hurt everyone in order to save them."

"I don't understand, but I'll help you any way I can," she relays mutedly. She is scared. Scared and worried and nibbling her lip to keep from crying just by looking at Sherlock's face right now, the way he looks, so stone cold and broken, only in this moment.

"You are too generous, Molly," Sherlock states. "Especially with me."

"I don't care," Molly replies swiftly, no doubt in her voice this time. "I-I love you, Sherlock, you're right. And I'd do anything for you because I trust your judgment. You'll do what's right, in the end. I know you will."

Sherlock gives the briefest and saddest of smiles Molly has ever seen. He turns and brings her into his arms. Against her hair, his breath soft outside her ear, he murmurs, "Then this is what I need you to do…"


	7. Johnlock: Sherlock the Cuddler

**A/N: Toyboxbrain prompted, "Could you do some after-sex fluff between Sherlock and John for me, please? :)" so I wrote this little diddy. :D**

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><p>He likes the post-sex moments better than the sex itself. Which would sound completely bizarre to anyone if he were to say it aloud, but then again, he's accustomed to sounding bizarre to everyone else, because they're all idiots who will never understand him anyway.<p>

But John understands. John isn't a cuddler — he prefers to fall asleep afterward — but when Sherlock told him the first time that he prefers the closeness to the actual sex because he isn't a sexual person, just an emotionally reserved one who is letting John behold his rare and buried emotions, John understood. Because John isn't average and John does know Sherlock well and John is good with these things.

So Sherlock conditions John to not fall asleep directly after sex, and John conditions Sherlock to enjoy it more as lovemaking, and in the end, ultimately, the sex is for John and the post-sex is for Sherlock.

And it goes a little something like this:

XXX

"Mm, John," Sherlock hums contentedly as he snuggles his lithe form alongside John's thicker one. He's all bony knees and elbows and ribs as he wraps his limbs around what he can reach of John where John's lying on his back, and Sherlock on his side. He nuzzles his flatmate's neck and feels John giggle tiredly, a spasm beneath Sherlock's fingers. "Do I often comment on my love for you?"

"No," John says truthfully. "Only about once a month, on mornings like this." He yawns and gestures around the room at the streams of sunlight catching floating dust particles in their beams, and at the way the sheets are tangled about their legs, half-off, and just barely covering their naughty bits. He huffs a laugh and sighs into Sherlock's dark locks. "And usually after sex only. Your inner sentimental nature comes out then, I guess."

"Hmm, seems so," Sherlock murmurs thoughtfully. He plants a kiss like a dandelion seed, light and feathery, into the soft curls on John's chest. "Well, in any case, I will never tire of you, John Watson."

"Duly noted," John smiles, and he had one arm around Sherlock already, but he brings the other over his chest and wraps it around Sherlock's shoulder. He drags Sherlock into him a bit, Sherlock's too-long legs striking the foot-board of John's bed, but Sherlock settles atop John and rests his head where it fits comfortably. He kisses the top of Sherlock's head. "I love you, too."

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes. This is why he likes post-sex so much better: he feels sleepy, satisfied, bonded, anchored, and like a normal person in love. He feels like John will never leave him, he feels like he's closer to being on John's level (or vice-versa?), and he feels like there is purpose for all that sweat and moaning and ejaculate and thrusting. Because after all that is over with, there is solely this: the reasoning behind all the physicality of it all. And Sherlock is a fan of reasoning. And layers. And as much as he appreciates action, he like the quiet settling that follows much better. It leaves more room for thinking.

"Having a long ponder, are we?" John muses with his eyes closed and his words slurred with oncoming sleep. It is, after all, just after half past six in the morning, and not quite a quarter 'til seven, and John has to work in a few hours, and it was Sherlock's fault for waking up John with his mouth on John's half-hard morning erection.

"Indeed," Sherlock mutters, and he opens his eyes a bit to look at John and appreciate the golden quality there is about John, in hair color, faint tan skin, and glow of pure morality. He brings a hand to John's face and caresses it gently, and John hums his approval, eyeballs flickering behind heavy lids. "I'm going to roll over. Spoon me."

"'Kay," the doctor grunts. Sherlock curls onto his other side and brings John's arms with him, gripping his forearms firmly and rubbing his thumb over John's arm hair as John adjusts his hips and spine and shoulders accordingly, legs weaving into just the right places along Sherlock's, his legs too short for his feet to touch Sherlock's, but it's just as well.

And with John's even breathing on Sherlock's neck and John's sheets almost completely lost around their ankles, Sherlock shuts his eyes, smiling a bit, and succumbs, for once, to the waves of sleep himself.


End file.
